I relax against the wall. The paper’s textured detailing tickles my bare shoulders, and the sensation sends my attention to the bubbled spot by the stage, though the flaw has lost the edge it had earlier. Now I see potential. Ditto the sconces in back, which—I wrinkle my nose—c’mon, that’s an easy fix.

The acrylic light fittings are too modern for the room, anyway. And the wallpaper’s just fussy. I noticed that the first time I came in to watch Jane sing. With the performers decked out in feathers and fringe, the clean lines of an art deco print would be better suited to us, maybe a solid block of matte color behind the stage to better define the area.

I close my eyes. The idea takes shape in my mind, a narrow arc extending from the sides of the stage to a few feet below the ceiling. My right hand finds its way to the calluses of my left again, fingers itching for a pencil . . .

A wolf whistle pierces the air and I flutter my eyes open with a start. I scan the room, hoping I wasn’t caught daydreaming. Esteban watches me from where he stands by the risers, his overly manicured eyebrows high.

“Coffee?” he mouths.

I wave him off, mouthing back, “I’m fine.” He winks and walks on, revealing an empty seat at the table behind him.

Odd. We’re supposed to be totally booked. I glance at the single individual seated at the two-top—

My glance stretches to a gawk as I take in his striking arrangement of appealing facial features: defined cheekbones; solid jaw; thick, dark eyebrows that peak a little in the center. Either Meryton’s lighting is working overtime, or this is one good-looking diner. I can’t determine which end of his thirties he’s closer to, but I’d place him at the younger side—

He’s looking at me.

My heart skitters. I smile, mortified I’ve been caught ogling, and pivot back to Ming. She’s in the process of shedding her robe, the boa already draped across the front of the stage. A roll of her shoulder eases the robe down her bicep. She arches a coquettish brow, inspiring another whistle.

I give myself a count of ten as I study the crowd, gradually making my way back to He of the Appealing Jawline.

He’s still watching me.

Pleasure ripples through me, sending a flush across my cheeks. I suppose I have a decision to make.

There’s a general congeniality expected of my interactions here. I’m more than happy to provide it, but I don’t actively court specific attention. The line between playful flirtation and legitimate interest can get thin in any situation, and when the one flirting is in her underthings, folks can get the wrong idea.